


Today

by Ladycat



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M, Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-12 03:44:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1181481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is chess with a mutable board, carefully crafted moves that shift in four dimensions, changing tempo or order but never deviating from the overall goal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Today

Atlantis twists and turns like some kind of Byzantine labyrinth, nooks and hidden passages buried under time. She exposes them reluctantly, sometimes to the expedition at large, but most often to only her chosen few.

Oddly enough, it’s not John who finds them, but Rodney. Atlantis would display herself in gauze and silk for Rodney, dancing with alluring command if she knew how, and only John knows it. Atlantis may love John, reaching out with metal and plastic and the steady thrum of something that isn’t alive but is, but it’s Rodney she adores, Rodney she would divulge all of her secrets to with nothing but a sigh.

John feels the same way and hides it about as well as she does.

He and the city, they get along just fine. Just fine indeed.

Sometimes he’ll search for hours, forced to fall back on plaintive children’s games as he bullies his way back into the light. Other times Atlantis helps him, a subtle shading to the floor the only arrow he needs. This is one of the latter times, John smirking with smug, almost arrogant satisfaction—he knows who he looks like and he wants to. Wants to be that infallibly right, that certain that some things are as stable and predictable for all that the patterns are different every damned time.

It keeps it fun.

A soft groan makes him grin boyishly, Atlantis warm as he leans against her walls, shivering in reaction. He’s always loved noises in others, giving what he has no idea how to return in kind. He leans there for a while, hunting down each breathless sigh or whimper, each choked off moan, the swallows that click and plunge in the stillness.

No one has been in this part of Atlantis since the Ancients built her, probably. And after... John doesn’t care about after. So long as this, here and now, is his, his, _all_ his.

It’s all planned. This is chess with a mutable board, carefully crafted moves that shift in four dimensions, changing tempo or order but never deviating from the overall goal. John’s better with large-scale planning, invasions where everything’s left to chance in the end. Small scale makes him trip up, overcompensating for some things, leaving others open and exposed—except for this. Except here and now, with Atlantis helping him with a chuckle he knows he’s imagining but doesn’t care about. Because she does help.

There’s no way he could find this perfect a window otherwise.

He’s never played like this before. He’s wanted to, deep down where he doesn’t let anyone see, hidden with the rest of the minutia of his life, the big and small, the significant he never lets anyone see. But it’s only here and now, with Atlantis dogging his steps, that he feels he can.

A twist here. A bend there. A raised eyebrow or a soft word. Letting the light fall in just the right way. An interruption perfectly timed, the phrases carefully chosen. They’ve fine-tuned it down to pure artistry, or at least John has, and each move makes him want to pant, to groan, to just give in and stop playing and _have_.

And sometimes, he does. Those times are good too.

But today he sees it all through the interminably long day, tense with anticipation because this is what he doesn’t know. He can harry and hound, he can taunt and torment, but the finale is never left up to him and that one hitch in his plans, that one unknown, can keep him full and running for _days_.

Another sigh, this one measured and slow to calm a heart beating too fast as John arches against the wall sinuously, searching for contact he won’t yet allow himself. Or rather, contact he’s not allowed, period.

“I know you’re there.”

John flinches—he’d been enjoying the anonymity to listen—but now he looks, turning fully so that he can see Rodney slumped against the wall, pants bunched around his knees while he slowly fists a cock red and proud with want.

John _loves_ Rodney’s hands. Loves each blunt finger, graceless except when they’re so utterly not, thick and covered in calluses that are rough in some places, too smooth in others. The light catches his nails as Rodney draws his hand up and down in one languid stroke.

He’s not going to pant yet. He isn’t, oh, god, he isn’t, he isn’t, and Jesus, if he licks his lips the way he wants to, Rodney’s going to know how far gone he already is and this will be over too soon and no. John’s put too much effort into this for a quick and dirty ending. He wants the whole thing tonight.

“Oh, hey, Rodney,” John drawls. “Didn’t see you there.”

Rodney snorts, crass and crude and so him that John has to struggle to stay where he is. He hasn’t been invited yet. “Liar,” Rodney says, mouth twisting into something that looks like a frown but isn’t. It’s a smile, reserved and restricted only for those who know how to read it.

“No, really,” he says, head bobbing earnestly, “I didn’t.”

“You were listening. Did you hear me moan, Sheppard? Do you know what I was thinking of, when I did?”

He heard. God, John hears every single breath Rodney takes and all the noises in between, no matter how much he rolls his eyes like a sullen teenager. “Sorry, you were _moaning_?” He frowns despite his desire to drop to his knees and crawl over, mouthing where he knows Rodney will be hot and satiny smooth. Where he’ll be bitter and sharp and clean and— “Are you hurt or something?”

Rodney’s juvenile enough to stick out his tongue, matching John measure for measure; other times he has. Not this time. “Idiot,” he says fondly, head jerking in silent command. “I was thinking about you, Sheppard. The way you decided to ‘help’ me today.” 

His hand doesn’t stop moving as he speaks and John finds his head trailing up and down with it, caught and hypnotized. There’s a snake metaphor in there, John’s sure, but some things are too easy—too cheesy—even for him and anyway, his thoughts are starting to melt away, vanishing in a haze of want he’s held off only through sheer willpower for the bulk of the day. “Hey, if you didn’t want me to move those boxes... ”

With his shirt off. Bending from the waist instead of his knees no matter how Carson would lecture him when he inevitably hurt his back. It was worth it, it _is_ worth it, and today John’s been as shameless a flirt as he knows how to be. It’s not blatant, or at least, not blatant in _public_ , but Rodney’s surprisingly good at picking up on subtleties when he knows to look for them.

When he wants to look for them.

“Actually, I didn’t.” Rodney’s brow furrows, shadows catching and melding with the ones haloing his head. “You made it impossible to work.” The unspoken _You moron_ is as loud and affectionate as the sappiest of endearments.

John shivers as it rings through his head. He’s close enough that he can smell Rodney now, sweat and salt and musk, and his knees ache with impact reaction they’ve yet to feel. God, he wants. But Rodney’s still contentedly looking up at him so it’s only his feet that inch forward across the cool floor. “Oops. My bad. Really.”

Rodney’s frowns are real, of course, but this one means _thinking, shut up_ , not _I am unhappy with whatever you’ve said or done and will now send you away, the way I have before and will again, just to make you thoroughly crazy_.

John _hates_ that frown. And loves it. And hates that he loves it. Hates that Rodney can play him so easily and loves that Rodney gets it, and it’s such a tangle that he doesn’t bother trying to untangle it anymore. It is what it is, it works and has worked for a while now; John’s not interested in disturbing the status quo.

That’s never part of the game.

Rodney’s hand speeds up a little, distracted by whatever he’s thinking about, thumb flicking out to collect the moisture glistening at the tip. John licks his lips—a move that never fails to catch Rodney’s attention, unfortunately.

A laser-sharp gaze pins him three feet from Rodney’s outstretched legs. “Aww, are we feeling needy today?”

John’s flush is hot and painful, ears tingling from a sudden influx of blood. He hates it—truly hates it, that he’s so visible, he who’s trained himself to hide everything—but it makes Rodney smirk with delight and that carries its own rewards. John has to work to breathe normally when all he wants to do is pant, open-mouthed and wet.

“You’re such a slut,” he’s teased. “If the others knew how badly you want it.”

But that’s the thing, the part that John doesn’t let himself think about even as Rodney gives it sound and shape, weight to crush him into nothing. He doesn’t want what Rodney wants, the sweet moment of bliss and release, the ones they ration like everything else because the job always, always comes first.

He wants _Rodney’s_ bliss.

“C’mon, McKay,” he says, suddenly sharp. He swallows, has to, rubbing his tongue against the roof of his mouth for friction, almost unconsciously mimicking the way Rodney strums against the top of the head, pattering like raindrops in a move John’s never expected and loves more than anything now that he knows of it. “I was _shirtless_.”

“Where anybody could see you,” Rodney grumps. But he’s cupped himself again, wrapped his hand around his thick, fat dick, and pumps it a few notches faster than ‘tortuously slow’. Now it’s just painfully slow, fingers paler than the flush of thin, delicate skin, blood-heavy as it’s tugged over and over. Rodney likes his palm—okay, anybody’s palm—the hard scrap of the heel against the base of his cock.

John’s hands itch every time Rodney digs just a little bit harder, holding just a little bit tighter and rougher as he pulls and pulls and pulls. He’s swaying, he realizes belatedly, caught in Rodney’s rhythm. He licks his lips again, pressing them hard against his teeth to stop a moan. “Nah, I checked,” he assures. “Nobody here but us chickens. There, too.”

His voice sounds rough, soil turned to crumbling, wind-swept sand, and he swallows again to wet a painfully dry throat. Rodney’s other hand comes down, legs widening as much as they can, allowing John to watch as he cups his own balls, rolling and rubbing them, pushing them up so they rest hard against his dick like an offering.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, John _wants_ so fucking badly.

Rodney’s chuckle startles him back to reality. “You do realize you’re talking, right?” Rodney says, grinning like a little boy—a big little boy—shifting again so that he can start a hand-over-hand motion that was John’s contribution to their repertoire. “I mean, I could’ve figured out your lapsed Catholic status from your records, but it’s so much more fun to hear you cursing like one.”

He flushes again and has to concentrate to keep his hands at his side. “Too much?”

“Christ, no. Do you realize you mutter that when you’re, ah. Doing what it is you do even when there are other people around?”

Like Rodney doesn’t love it as much as he does, masturbating like an eager teenager while John watches. “Way to be delicate, Mr. Always Speaks His Mind.”

“Oh, yes, because repressed queers always blurt out their fantasies to me in the middle of the god damned mess.” Rodney’s really panting now, face as red as his cock. His shoulders are starting to shake, straining under familiar science blue, head tipping back so John can only guess that his pupils are blown, rimmed black holes that John loses himself in every damned time.

Rodney’s the only one who’s ever really looked at him.

“Was I doing that?” It’s hard to sound disingenuous but he tries.

Rodney _snarls_ , face twisting as his hand moves faster, then faster still, starting to blur and probably ache as he gets closer. He’s frowning now, as angry looking as John’s ever seen him, and all John wants to do is lick the sweat from his temples, kiss the scowl from his mouth until it’s branded onto John’s.

“You so were,” Rodney gasps. “You had stupid _chapters_ of what you wanted me to do to you, where anybody could see, everybody could know that you—that we—God, John, you made _kissy faces_ at me!”

It’s not his kink, or it wasn’t, but Rodney’s incoherent now, caught up in the memory of John being stupid and childish to everybody but him, but _Rodney_ who knows how much John loves to kiss and make out without ever going further, that sometimes kissing is better than the dirtiest of encounters because raunch is easy. Sex in the crudest sense takes no brain power at all, as common as pebbles on a sea floor; what they are—what they have— _isn’t_ , it’s more—

Rodney gasps brokenly, hips jerking hard enough to lift his ass from the floor as he fucks a tight fist, slick from his own long-delayed need. It’s a command of sorts and John’s there in a flash, wrapping his arms around Rodney’s shoulders, pulling so that Rodney’s half-cradled in his lap, ass now shoving back hard against his thigh instead of the cold, hard floor. “Jesus,” Rodney whines, burying his face in John’s cheek and chin, hard enough to bruise.

And John says, “C’mon, Rodney, yeah, it’s okay, come on,” over and over until the words have no meaning. Rodney mutters with him, litanies learned long ago, until he comes with a cry only John and Atlantis ever hear. He’s almost sobbing as he rides it out into a panting, messy stillness, caught and held by an unmoving John, still as a rock, as the floor and the wall he’d propped himself against who knew how long ago, waiting for John to do exactly this.

John doesn’t get to all that often. He doesn’t really want it routinely, fascinated more by Rodney’s broad shoulders and surprisingly powerful arms. But when he does, when it’s bad, Rodney always knows and lets him, leans against him like he’s not skinny and bony, like he’s as comfortable as his own bed.

Given Rodney’s mattress, though, that may not be too far off.

“Hey,” Rodney says. He rubs a sticky hand against John’s jaw, leaving a smear that probably isn’t visible. It feels like a brand to John. “Y’okay?”

John tightens his arms and holds on. “I’m not the one that just came my brains out.”

“Pffft. Technicalities.” Neither of them mention how hard John is; that’s part of the game, seeing how long they can draw it out, how fast and easy John can walk as they slink back to wherever they’ll end the night. “Oh, god, I’m a mess. I’m _sticky_ and these pants…”

There’s no fishing in the whine, just a comfortingly familiar complaint from the comfortingly comfortable man he holds. John chuckles and noses into Rodney’s temple. “No, Rodney, I’m not doing your laundry. And no, we’re not having a bath.”

“Oooo. A bath. Do you suppose Atlantis has hot tubs?” Loosely, Rodney flails a fist out towards the wall, banging it lightly. “Hey, do you have hot tubs? I want a hot tub. Mm. Naked Sheppard in a hot tub.” Rodney trails off into dreamy mutterings and walking is going to be exquisitely painful at this point, but that’s good, that’s—“Hey,” Rodney’s saying, tugging John’s face down for a kiss. “You want toys or fingers later?”

John tenses, trying not to hump Rodney’s endorphin-rich body. “Uh.”

“Because I’m not getting it up again until after I’ve slept like the dead for a while, and had a sandwich or five—do we still have those energy drinks in your quarters? Because maybe if I had one of those—” He breaks off, focusing on whatever’s written on John’s skin, his frown transforming into a beaming, happy grin that is somehow even more _because_ it’s so very, very smug.

“You’re ready to come right here, aren’t you?” Rodney says wickedly. “Well, too bad. You’re waiting at least until we get to somebody’s quarters and I have something to eat. Can you do that?”

John swallows heavily, body _burning_ with the need to bury himself inside Rodney—and that might even happen, if he can prove he’s got the stamina still—and turns as smug a look as he can manage, a distorted reflection of the smirk inches below him. “I’m John Sheppard,” he says easily. “I can do anything, remember?”


End file.
